The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

These ‘Songs,’ inasmuch as they formed a portion of the ‘Drama of Kings,’ preceded by a long period the publication of Victor Hugo's series under the same admirable title. The ‘Drama of Kings’ was written under a false conception, which no one discarded sooner than the author; but portions of it are preserved in the present collection, because, although written during the same feverish and evanescent excitement, they are the distinct lyrical products of the author's mind, and perfectly complete in themselves.—R.B.

ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF AUGUSTE COMTE.

(1871.)

Spirit of the great brow!
Fire hath thy City now:
She shakes the sad world with her troubled scream!
O spirit who loved best
This City of the West,
Hark! loud she shattered cries—great Queen of thy great Dream.

But, as she passes by
To the earth's scornful cry,
What are those Shapes who walk behind so wan?—
Martyrs and prophets born
Out of her night and morn:
Have we forgot them yet?—these, the great friends of Man.

We name them as they go,
Dark, solemn-faced, and slow—

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Voltaire, with saddened mouth, but eyes still bright,
Turgot, Malesherbes, Rousseau,
Lafayette, Mirabeau—
These pass and many more, heirs of large realms of Light.

Greatest and last pass thou!
Strong heart and mighty brow,
Thine eyes surcharged with love of all things fair;
Facing with those grand eyes
The light in the sweet skies.
While thy shade earthward falls, darkening my soul to prayer.

Sure as the great sun rolls,
The crown of mighty souls
Is martyrdom, and lo! thou hast thy crown.
On her pale brow there weighed
Another such proud shade—
O, but we know you both, risen or stricken down.

Sinful, mad, fever-fraught,
At war with her own thought,
Great-soul'd, sublime, the heir of constant pain,
France hath the dreadful part
To keep alive Man's heart,
To shake the sleepy blood into the slug-gard's brain;

Ever in act to spring,
Ever in suffering,
To point a lesson and to bear the load,
Least happy and least free
Of all the lands that be,
Dying that all may live, first of the slaves of God.

To try each crude desire
By her own soul's fierce fire,
To wait and watch with restless brain and heart,
To quench the fierce thirst never,
To feel supremely ever,
To rush where cowards crawl—this is her awful part.

Ever to cross and rack,
Along the same red track,
Genius is led, and speaks its soul out plain;
Blessed are those that give—
They die that man may live,
Their crown is martyrdom, their privilege is pain.

Spirit of the great brow!
I see thee, know thee now—
Last of the flock who die for man each day.
Ah, but I should despair
Did I not see up there
A Shepherd heavenly-eyed on the heights far away.

No cheat was thy vast scheme
Tho' in thy gentle dream
Thou saw'st no Shepherd watching the wild throng—
Thou, walking the sad road
Of all who seek for God,
Blinded became at last, looking at Light so long.

Yet God is multiform,
Human of heart and warm,
Content to take what shape the Soul loves best;
Before our footsteps still,
He changeth as we will—
Only,—with blood alone we gain Him, and are blest.

O, latest son of her,
Freedom's pale harbinger,
I see the Shepherd whom thou could'st not find;
But on thy great fair brow,
As thou didst pass but now,
Bright burnt the patient Cross of those who bless mankind.

And on her brow, who flies
Bleeding beneath the skies,
The mark was set that will not let her rest—
Sinner in all men's sight,
Mocker of very Light,
Yet is she chosen thus, martyr'd—and shall be blest.

Go by, O mighty dead!
My soul is comforted;
The Shepherd on the summit needs no prayers;
Best worshipper is he
Who suffers and is free—
That Soul alone blasphemes which trembles and despairs.

337

A DIRGE FOR KINGS.

Strange are the bitter things
God wreaks on cruel Kings;
Sad is the cup drunk up
By Kings accurst.
In secret ways and strong
God doth avenge man's wrong.
The least, God saith, is Death,
And Life the worst.

Sit under the sweet skies;
Think how Kings set and rise,
Think, wouldst thou know the woe
In each proud breast?
Sit on the hearth and see
Children look up to thee—
Think, wouldst thou own a throne,
Or lowly rest?

Ah, to grow old, grow old,
Upon a throne of gold—
Ah, on a throne, so lone,
To wear a crown;
To watch the clouds, the air,
Lest storm be breeding there—
Pale, lest some blast may cast
Thy glory down.

He who with miser's ken
Hides his red gold from men,
And wakes and grieves, lest thieves
Be creeping nigh;
He who hath murder done,
And fears each rising sun,
Lest it say plain ‘O Cain,
Rise up and die!’

These, and all underlings,
Are blesseder than Kings,
For ah! by weight of fate
Kings' hearts are riven;
With blood and gold they too
Reckon their sad days thro'—
They fear the plan of man,
The wrath of heaven.

In the great lonely bed,
Hung round with gold and red,
While the dim light each night
Burns in the room,
They lie alone and see
The rustling tapestry,
Lest Murther's eyes may rise
Out of the gloom.

Dost thou trust any man?
Thou dost what no King can.
Friend hast thou near and dear?
A King hath none.
Hast thou true love to kiss?
A King hath no such bliss,
On no true breast may rest
Under the sun.

Ah, to sit cold, sit cold,
Upon a throne of gold,
Forcing the while a smile
To hide thy care;
To taste no cup, to eat
No food, however sweet,
But with a drear dumb fear,
Lest Death be there!

Ah, to rule men, and know
How many wish thee low—
That 'neath the sun, scarce one
Would keep thee high:
To watch in agony
The strife of all things free,
To dread the mirth of Earth
When thou shalt die!

Hast thou a hard straw bed?
Hast thou thy crust of bread?
And hast thou quaffed thy draught
Of water clear?
And canst thou dance and sing?—
O blesseder than a King!
O happy one whom none
Doth hate or fear!

Wherefore, though from the strong
Thou sufferest deep wrong,
Tho' Kings, with ire and fire,
Have wrought thee woe:
Pray for them! for I swear
Deeply they need thy prayer—
Most in their hour of power,
Least when cast low.

And when thou castest down
King, sceptre, throne, and crown,
Pause that same day, and pray
For the accurst;
Since in strange ways and strong,
God doth avenge man's wrong—
The least, God saith, is Death,
And Life the worst.

338

THE PERFECT STATE.

Where is the perfect State
Early most blest and late,
Perfect and bright?
'Tis where no Palace stands
Trembling on shifting sands
Morning and night.
'Tis where the soil is free,
Where, far as eye may see,
Scattered o'er hill and lea,
Homesteads abound;
Where clean and broad and sweet
(Market, square, lane, and street,
Belted by leagues of wheat),
Cities are found.

Where is the perfect State
Early most blest and late,
Gentle and good?
'Tis where no lives are seen
Huddling in lanes unseen,
Crying for food;
'Tis where the home is pure,
'Tis where the bread is sure,
'Tis where the wants are fewer,
And each want fed;
Where plenty and peace abide,
Where health dwells heavenly-eyed,
Where in nooks beautified,
Slumber the Dead.

Where is the perfect State
Unvexed by Wrath and Hate,
Quiet and just?
Where to no form of creed
Fetter'd are thought and deed,
Reason and trust.
'Tis where the great free mart
Broadens, while from its heart
Forth the great ships depart,
Blown by the wind;
'Tis where the wise men's eyes,
Fixed on the earth and skies,
Seeking for signs, devise
Good for mankind.

Where is the perfect State,
Holy and consecrate,
Blessedly wrought?
'Tis where all waft abroad
Wisdom and faith in God,
Beautiful thought.
'Tis where the Poet's sense
Deepens in reverence,
While to his truths intense
Multitudes turn.
Where the bright sons of art,
Walking in street or mart,
Feel mankind's reverent heart
Tremble and yearn.

Say, is the perfect State,
Strong and self-adequate,
There where it stands,
Perfect in praise of God,
Casting no thoughts abroad
Over the lands?
Nay: for by each man's side
Hangeth a weapon tried;
Nay: for wise leaders guide
Under the Lord.
Nor, when a people cries,
Smiling with half-shut eyes,
Waiteth this State,—but flies,
Lifting the Sword.

Where is the perfect State?
Not where men sit and wait,
Selfishly strong;
While some lost sister State
Crieth most desolate,
Ruin'd by wrong;
Not where men calmly sleep,
Tho' all the world should weep
Not where they merely heap
Gold in the sun:
Not where in charity
Men with mere dust are free,
When o'er the weary sea
Murder is done.

Which is the perfect State?
Not the self-adequate
Coward and cold;
Not the brute thing of health,
Swollen with gather'd wealth,
Sleepy and old.
Nay, but the mighty land
Ever with helping hand,
Ever with flaming brand,
Rising in power:
This is the fair and great,
This the evangel State,
Letting no wrong'd land wait
In the dark hour.

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This is the perfect State,
Early in arms and late;
Blessed at home;—
Ready at Freedom's cry
Forward to fare and die,
Over the foam.
Loving States great and small,
Loving home best of all,
Yet at the holy call
Springing abroad:
This is the royal State,
Perfect and adequate,
Equal to any fate,
Chosen of God!

THE TWO VOICES.

(January 1871.)

FIRST VOICE.
Fly to me, England! Hie to me,
Now in mine hour of woe;
Haste o'er the sea, ere I die, to me;
Swiftly, my Sister! stand nigh to me.
Help me to strike one blow!
Over the land and the water,
Swifter than winds can go,
Up the red furrow of slaughter,
Down on the lair of the foe!
Now, when my children scream madly and cling to me;
Now, when I droop o'er the dying they bring to me;
Come to me, England! O speak to me, spring to me!
Hurl the assassin low!

SECOND VOICE.
Woe to thee? I would go to thee
Faster than wind can flee;
Doth not my fond heart flow to thee?
Would I might rise and show to thee
All that my love would be!
But behold, they bind me and blind me;
Cowards, yet born of me;
They fasten my hands behind me,
I am chain'd to a rock in the sea.
Alas, what availeth my grief while I sigh for thee?
Traitors have trapt me—I struggle—I cry for thee—
Come to thee, Sister? Yea, were it to die for thee!—
O that my hands were free!

FIRST VOICE.
Pray for me, Sister! say for me
Prayers until help is nigh;
Send thy loud voice each way for me,
Trouble the night and the day for me,
Waken the world and the sky:
Say that my heart is broken,
Say that my children die;
With blood and tears for thy token,
Plead till the nations reply.
Plead to the sea, and the earth, and the air for me!
Move the hard heart of the world till it care for me—
Come to me, England!—at least say a prayer for me,
Waken the winds with a cry!

SECOND VOICE.
Doom on me, Hell's own gloom on me,
Blood and a lasting blame!
Already the dark days loom on me,
Cold as the shade of the tomb on me;
I am call'd by the coward's name.
Shall I hark to a murder'd nation?
Shall I sit unarm'd and tame?
Then woe to this generation,
Tho' out of my womb they came.
Betrayed by my children, I wall and I call for thee;
Not tears, but my heart's blood, O Sister, should fall for thee.
My children are slaves, or would strike one and all for thee:
Shame on them, shame! shame! shame!

FIRST VOICE.
Pain for thee! all things wane for thee
In truth, if this be so,

340

Fatal will be the stain for thee,
Dying, I mourn and 'plain for thee,
Since thou art left so low:
For Death can come once only,
Tho' bitterly comes the blow;
But Shame abideth, and lonely
Feels a sick heart come and go.
Homeless and citiless, yet I can weep for thee;
Fast comes the morrow with anguish most deep for thee;
Dying, I mourn for the sorrow they heap for thee:
Thine is the bitterest woe.

SECOND VOICE.
Mourn me not, Sister! scorn me not!
Pray yet for mine and me;
Tho' the old proud fame adorn me not,
The sore grief hath outworn me not:
Wait; I will come to thee.
I will rend my chains asunder,
I will tear my red sword free,
I will come with mine ancient thunder,
I will strike the foe to his knee.
Yea! tho' the knife of the butcher is nigh to thee;
Yea! while thou screamest and echoes reply to thee;
Comfort, O France; for in God's name, I fly to thee—
Sword in hand, over the sea!

ODE BEFORE PARIS.

(December 1870.)

City of loveliness and light and splendour,
City of Sorrows, hearken to our cry;
O Mother tender,
O Mother marvellously fair,
And tairest now in thy despair,
Look up! O be of comfort! Do not die!
Let the black hour blow by.

Cold is the night, and colder thou art lying.
Gnawing a stone sits Famine at thy feet
Shivering and sighing;
Blacker than Famine, on thy breast,
Like a sick child that will not rest,
Moans Pestilence; and hard by, with fingers fleet,
Frost weaves his winding-sheet.

Snow, snow! the wold is white as one cold lily.
Snow: it is frozen round thee as hard as lead;
The wind blows chilly;
Thou liest white in the dim night,
And in thine eyes there is no light,
And the Snow falleth, freezing on thy head,
And covering up thy dead.

Ah, woe! thy hands, no longer flower-bearing,
Press stony on thy heart; and that heart bleeds;
Thine eyes despairing
Watch while the fierce Fire clings and crawls
Through falling roofs and crumbling walls.
Ah, woe! to see thee thus, the wild soul pleads,
The wild tongue intercedes.

O, we will cry to God, and pray and plead for thee;
We, with a voice that troubles heaven and air,
Will intercede for thee:
We will cry for thee in thy pain,
Louder than storm and wind and rain;
What shape among the nations may compare
With thee, most lost, most fair?

Yea, thou hast sinned and fallen, O City splendid,
Yea, thou hast passed through days of shamefullest woe—
And lo! they are ended—
Famine for famine, flame for flame,
Sorrow for sorrow, shame for shame,
Verily thou hast found them all;—and lo!
Night and the falling snow.

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Let Famine eat thy heart, let Fire and Sorrow
Hold thee, but turn thy patient eyes and see
The dim sweet morrow.
Better be thus than what thou wast,
Better be stricken and overcast,
Martyr'd once more, as when to all things free
Thy lips cried ‘Liberty!’

Let the Snow fall! thou shalt be sweeter and whiter;
Let the Fire burn! under the morning sky
Thou shalt look brighter.
Comfort thy sad soul through the night;
Turn to the east and pray for light;
Look up! O be of comfort! Do not die!
Let the black hour blow by!

A DIALOGUE IN THE SNOW.

(Before Paris, December 1870.)

DESERTER.
O, I am spent! My heart fails, and my limbs
Are palsied. Would to God I were dead!

SISTERS OF MERCY.
Stand! What art thou, who like a guilty thing
Creepest along the shadow, stooping low?

DESERTER.
A man. Now stand aside, and let me pass.

SISTERS.
Not yet. Whence fleest thou? Whither dost thou go?

DESERTER.
From Famine and Fire. From Horror.
From Frost and Death.

SISTERS.
O coward! traitor to unhappy France!
Stand forward in the moon, that it may light
The blush of shame uoon thy guilty cheek!
Lo, we are women, yet we shiver cold
To look upon so infamous a thing.

DESERTER.
Nay, look your fill, I care not—stand and see.

SISTERS.
O horror! horror! who hath done this deed?

DESERTER.
What say ye? am I fair to look upon?

SISTERS.
The dead are fairer. O unhappy one!

DESERTER.
Why do ye shudder? Am I then so foul?

SISTERS.
There is no living flesh upon thy bones.

DESERTER.
Famine hath fed upon my limbs too long.

SISTERS.
And thou art rent as by the teeth of hounds.

DESERTER.
Fire tore me, and what blood I have I bleed.

SISTERS.
Thine eyes stare like the blank eyes of a corpse.

DESERTER.
They have look'd so close on horror and so long,
I cannot shut them from it till I die.

SISTERS.
Thou crawlest like a man whose sick limbs fail.

DESERTER.
Ha! Frost is there, and numbs me like a snake.

SISTERS.
God help thee, miserable one; and yet,
Better if thou hadst perish'd in thy place
Than live inglorious, tainted with thy shame.

DESERTER.
Shame? I am long past shame. I know her not.

342

SISTERS.
Is there no sense of honour in thy soul?

DESERTER.
Honour? Why see, she hath me fast enough:
These are her other names, Fire, Famine, and Frost,—
Soon I shall hear her last and sweetest,— Death.

SISTERS.
Hast thou no care for France, thy martyr'd land?

DESERTER.
What hath she given me? Curses and blows.

SISTERS.
O miserable one, remember God!

DESERTER.
God? Who hath look'd on God? Where doth He dwell?
O fools, with what vain words and empty names
Ye sicken me. Honour, France, God! All these—
Hear me—I curse. Why, look you, there's the sky,
Here the white earth, there, with its bleeding heart,
The butcher'd City; here half dead stand I.
A murder'd man, grown grey before my time,
Forty years old—a husband, and a father—
An outcast flying out of Hell. Who talks
To me of ‘honour’? The first tears I wept
When standing at my wretched mother's knee,
Because her face was white, and she wore black.
That day the bells rang out for victory.
Then, look you, after that my mother sat
Weeping and weary in an empty house,
And they who look'd upon her shrunken cheeks
Fed her with ‘honour.’ 'Twas too gentle fare,—
She died. Nay, hearken! Left to seek for bread,
I like a wild thing haunted human doors
Searching the ash for food. I ate and lived.
I grew. Then, wretched as I was, I felt
Strange stirs of manhood in my flesh and bones,
Dim yearnings, fierce desires, and one pale face
Could still them as the white moon charms the sea.
Oh, but I was a low and unclean thing,
And yet she loved me, and I stretch'd these hands
To God, and blest Him for His charity.
Mark that:—I blest Him, I. Even as I stood,
Bright in new manhood, the drums beat,— a hand
Fell on my shoulder, and, ‘in France's name,’
A voice cried, ‘Follow.’ To my heart they held
Cold steel:—I followed; following saw her face
Fade to a bitter cry—hurl'd on with blows,
Curs'd, jeer'd at, scorn'd, went forth as in a dream,
And, driven into the bloody flash of war,
Struck like a blinded beast I knew not whom
Blows for I knew not what. The fierce years came
Like ulcers on my heart, and heal'd, and went.
Then I crept back, a broken sickly man,
To seek her, and I found her—dead! She had died,
Poor worm, of hunger. She had ask'd for bread,
And ‘France’ had given her stones. She had pray'd to ‘God’;
He had given her a grave. The day she died,
The bells rang for another victory.

SISTERS.
O do not weep! Yet we are weeping too.

DESERTER.
Now mark, I was too poor a worm to grieve
Too long and deeply. The years passed. My heart
Heal'd, and as wounds heal, harden'd. Once again
I join'd the wolves that up and down the earth
Rush tearing at men's lives and women's hearts.

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That passed, and I was free. One morn I saw
Another woman, and I hunger'd to her,
And we were wedded. Hard days follow'd that;
And children—she was fruitful—all your worms
Are fruitful, mark—that is God's blessing too!
Well, but we throve, and farm'd a bit of land
Out yonder by the City. I learn'd to love
The mother of my little ones. Time sped;
And then I heard a cry across the fields,
The old cry, ‘Honour,’ the old cry, ‘For France!’
And like a wolf caught in his lair I shrunk
And shudder'd. It grew louder, that curst cry!
Day follow'd day, no bells rung victory,
But there were funeral faces everywhere;
And then I heard the far feet of the foe
Trampling the field of France and coming nearer
To that poor field I sow'd. I would have fled,
But that they thrust a weapon in mine hands
And bade me stand and strike ‘for France.’ I laugh'd!
But the wolves had me, and we screaming drew
Into the City. Shall I gorge your souls
With horror? Shall I croak into your ears
What I have suffer'd there, what I have seen?
I was a worm, ever a worm, and starved
While the plump coward cramm'd. Look at me, women,
Fire, Famine, and Frost have got me; yet I crawl,
And shall crawl on; for hark you, yester-night,
Standing within the City, sick at heart,
I gazed up eastward, thinking of my home
And of the woman and children desolate,
And lo! out of the darkness where I knew
Our hamlet lay there shot up flames and cast
A bloody light along the arc of heaven;
And all my heart was sicken'd unaware
With hunger such as any wild thing feels
To crawl again in secret to the place
Whence the fierce hunter drove it, and to see
If its young live; and thither indeed I fare;
And yonder flame still flareth, and I crawl,
And I shall crawl unto it though I die;
And I shall only smile if they be dead,
If I may merely see them once again,—
For come what may, my cup of life is full,
And I am broken from all use and will.

SISTERS.
Pass on, unhappy one; God help thee now!

DESERTER.
If ye have any pity, give me bread.

SISTERS.
Lean on us! Oh thou lost one, come this way.

THE PRAYER IN THE NIGHT.

Stars in heaven with gentle faces,
Can ye see and keep your places?
Flowers that on the old earth blossom,
Can ye hang on such a bosom?
Canst thou wander on for ever
Through a world so sad, O River?
O ye fair things 'neath the sun,
Can ye bear what Man hath done?

This is Earth. Heaven glimmers yonder.
Pause a little space and ponder!

Day by day the fair world turneth
Dewy eyes to heaven and yearneth,
Day by day the mighty Mother
Sees her children smite each other.
She moans, she pleads, they do not hear her—
She prays-the skies seem gathering near her—
Yearning down diviner, bluer,
Baring every star unto her,—
Each strange light with swinging censer
Sweeter seeming and intenser,—
Yet she ceaseth not her cry,
Seeing how her children die.

On her bosom they are lying,
Clinging to her, dead and dying—
Dead eyes frozen in imploring
Yonder heaven they died adoring,

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Dying eyes that upward glimmer
Ever growing darker, dimmer;
And her eyes, too, thither turning,
Asking, praying, weeping, yearning,
Search the blue abysses, whither
He who made her, brought her hither,
Gave her children, bade them grow,
Vanished from her long ago.

Ah, what children! Father, see them!
Never word of hers may free them—
Never word of love may win them.
For there burneth fierce within them
Fire of thine; soul-sick and sinning,
As they were in the beginning,
Here they wander. Father, see!
Generations born of Thee!

Blest was Earth when on her bosom
First she saw the double blossom,
Double sweetness, man and woman,
One in twain, divine and human,
Leaping, laughing, crying, clinging,
To the sound of her sweet singing—
Flesh like lily and rose together,
Eyes as blue as April weather,
Golden hair with golden shadows,
In the face the light of meadows,
In the eyes the dim soul peeping
Like the sky in water sleeping.
‘Guard them well!’ the Father said,
Set them in her arms,—and fled.

Countless worlds around Him yearning,
Vanish'd He from her discerning;—
Then she drooped her fair face, seeing
On her breast each gentle being:
And unto her heart she prest them,
Raised her look to heaven and blest them;
And the fountains leapt around her,
Leaves and flowers shot up and crown'd her,
Flowers bloom'd and streams ran gleaming.
Till with bliss she sank to dreaming;—
And the darkness for a cover
Gently drew its veil above her,
And the new-born smiled reposing,
And a million eyes unclosing
Yearn'd through all the veil to see
That new fruit of mystery.

Father! come from the abysses;
Come, Thou light the Mother misses;
Come; while hungry generations
Pass away, she sits in patience.
Of the children Thou didst leave her,
Millions have been born to grieve her.
See! they gather, living, dying,
Coming, going, multiplying;
And the Mother, for the Father,
Though like waves they rise and gather,
Though they blossom thick as grasses,
Misses every one that passes,
Flashes on them peace and light
Of a love grown infinite.

Father! see them: hath each creature
Something in him of Thy nature?
Born of Thee and of no other,
Born to Thee by a sweet Mother,
Man strikes man, and brother brother.
Hearts of men from Thy heart fashioned
Bleed and anguish bloody-passion'd;
Beast-like roar the generations;
Tiger-nations spring on nations;
Though the stars yearn downward nightly,
Though the days come ever brightly,
Though to gentle holy couches
Death in angel's guise approaches,
Though they name Thee, though they woo Thee,
Though they dream of, yearn unto Thee,
Ill they guess the guise Thou bearest,
Ill they picture Thee, Thou Fairest;—
Come again, O Father wise,
Awe them with those loving eyes!

Stars in heaven with tender faces,
Can ye see and keep your places?
Flowers that on the Earth will blossom,
Can ye deck so sad a bosom?
Canst thou singing flow for ever
Through a world so dark, O River?
Father, canst Thou calmly scan
All that Man hath made of Man?

THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE.

Who passeth there
Naked and bare,
A bloody sword upraising?
Who with thin moan
Glides past alone,
At the black heaven gazing?

345

Limbs thin and stark,
Eyes sunken and dark,
The lightning round her leaping?
What shape floats past
Upon the blast,
Crouching in pain and creeping?
Behold! her eyes to heaven are cast,
And they are red with weeping.

Say a prayer thrice
With lips of ice:
'Tis she—yea, and no other;
Look not at me
So piteously,
O France—O martyr mother!
O whither now,
With branded brow
And bleeding heart, art flying?
Whither away?
O stand! O stay!
Tho' winds, waves, clouds are crying—
Dawn cometh swift—'twill soon be day—
The Storm of God is dying.

She will not speak,
But, spent and weak,
Droops her proud head and goeth;
See! she crawls past,
Upon the blast,
Whither no mortal knoweth—
O'er fields of fight,
Where glimmer white
Death's steed and its gaunt rider—
Thro' storm and snow
Behold her go,
With never a friend beside her—
O Shepherd of all winds that blow,
To Quiet Waters guide her!

There, for a space,
Let her sad face
Fall in a tranquil mirror—
There spirit-sore
May she count o'er
Her sin, her shame, her error,—
And read with eyes
Made sweet and wise
What her strong God hath taught her,
With face grown fair
And bosom bare
And hands made clean from slaughter—
O Shepherd, seek and find her there,
Beside some Quiet Water!

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD.

(Versailles, 1871.)

PRIEST.
Hark to the Song of the Sword!
In the beginning, a Word
Came from the lips of the Lord;
And He said, ‘The Earth shall be,
And around the Earth and Sea,
And over these twain the Skies;
And out of the Earth shall rise
Man, the last and the first;
And Man shall hunger and thirst,
And shall eat of the fruits in the sun,
And drink of the streamlets that run,
And shall find the wild yellow grains,
And, opening earth, in its veins
Sow the seeds of the same; for of bread
I have written that he shall be fed.’
Thus at the first said the Lord.

CHOIR.
Hark to the Song of the Sword!

PRIEST.
Then Man sowed the grain, and to bread
Kneaded the grain, and was fed,
He and his household indeed
To the last generation and seed:
Then the children of men, young and old,
Sat by the waters of gold,
And ate of the bread and the fruit,
And drank of the stream, but made suit
For blessing no more than the brute.
And God said, ‘'Twere better to die
Than eat and drink merely, and lie
Beast-like and foul on the sod,
Lusting, forgetful of God!’
And he whispered, ‘Dig deeper again,
Under the region of grain,
And bring forth the thing ye find there
Shapeless and dark; and prepare
Fire,—and into the same
Cast what ye find—let it flame—
And when it is burning blood-bright,
Pluck it forth, and with hammers of might
Beat it out, beat it out, till ye mark
The thing that was shapeless and dark
Grown beautiful, azure, and keen,
Purged in the fire and made clean.

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Beautiful, holy, and bright,
Gleaming aloft in the light;—
Then lift it, and wield!’ said the Lord.

CHOIR.
Hark to the Song of the Sword!

PRIEST.
Then Man with a brighter desire
Saw the beautiful thing from the fire,
And the slothful arose, and the mean
Trembled to see it so keen,
And God, as they gather'd and cried,
Thunder'd a World far and wide:
‘This Sword is the Sword of the Strong!
It shall strike at the life's blood of wrong;
It shall kill the unclean, it shall wreak
My doom on the shameful and weak;
And the strong with this sign in their hands
Shall gather their hosts in the lands,
And strike at the mean and the base,
And strengthen from race on to race;
And the weak shall be wither'd at length,
For the glory of Man is his strength,
And the weak man must die,’ saith the Lord.

CHOIR.
Hark to the Song of the Sword!

PRIEST.
Sire, whom all men of thy race
Name as their hope and their grace;
King of the Rhine-water'd land.
Heart of the state and its hand,
Thou of the purple and crown,
Take, while thy servants bow down,
The Sword in thy grasp.

KAISER.
It is done.

PRIEST.
Uplift! let it gleam in the sun—
Uplift in the name of the Lord!

CHOIR.
Hail to the King and the Sword!

KAISER.
Lo! how it gleams in the light,
Beautiful, bloody, and bright—
Such in the dark days of yore
The monarchs of Israel bore;
Such by the angels of heaven
To Charles the Mighty was given—
Yea, I uplift the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord!

THE CHIEFS.
Form ye a circle of fire
Around him, our King and our Sire—
While in the centre he stands,
Kneel with your swords in your hands,
Then with one voice deep and free
Echo like waves of the sea—
‘In the name of the Lord!’

CHANCELLOR.
Sire, while thou liftest the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord,
I too, thy slave, kneel and blend
My voice with the hosts that attend—
Yea, and while kneeling I hold
A scroll writ in letters of gold,
With the names of the monarchs who bow
Thy liegemen throned lower than thou;
Moreover, in letters of red,
Their names who ere long must be led
To thy feet, while thou liftest the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord.

VOICES WITHOUT.
Where is he?—he fades from our sight!
Where the Sword?—all is blacker than night.
Is it finish'd, that loudly ye cry?
Doth he sheathe the great Sword while we die?
O bury us deep, most deep;
Write o'er us, wherever we sleep,
‘In the name of the Lord!’

KAISER.
While I uplift the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord,
Why, with mine eyes full of tears,
Am I sick of the song in mine ears?
God of the Israelite, hear;
God of the Teuton, be near;
Strengthen my pulse lest I fail,
Shut out these slain while they wail—
For they come with the voice of the grave
On the glory they give me and gave.

CHORUS.
In the name of the Lord? Of what Lord?
Where is He, this God of the Sword?
Unfold Him; where hath He his throne?
Is he Lord of the Teuton alone?

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Doth He walk on the earth? Doth He tread
On the limbs of the dying and dead?
Unfold Him! We sicken, and long
To look on this God of the strong!

PRIEST.
Hush! In the name of the Lord,
Kneel ye, and bless ye the Sword!
Bless it with soul and with brain,
Bless it for saved and for slain,
For the sake of the dead in the tomb,
For the sake of the child in the womb,
For the sake of these Kings on the knee,
For the sake of a world it shall free!
Bless it, the Sword! bless the Sword!
Yea, in the name of the Lord!

CHIEFS.
Deepen the circle of Fire
Around him, our King and our Sire!
While in our centre he towers,
Kneeling, ye spirits, ye powers,
Bless it and bless it again,
Bless it for saved and for slain,
Bless ye the beautiful Sword,
Aloud in the name of the Lord!

KAISER.
In the name of the Lord!

ALL.
In the name of the Lord!

THE CHAUNT BY THE RHINE.

(1871.)

Te verò appello sanctissimum Flumen, tibique futura prædico: torrenti sanguine plenus ad ripas usque erumpes, undæque divinæ non solum polluentur sanguine, sed totæ rumpentur, et viris multo major erit numerus sepultorum. Quid fles, O Asclepi?—The Asclepian Dialogue.

FIRST VOICE.

(From Germany.)

Flash the sword!—and even as thunder
Utter ye one living voice,—
While the watching nations wonder,
Hills of Fatherland, rejoice:
Echo!—echo back our prayers and acclamations!

SECOND VOICE.

(From France.)

France, O Mother! lie and hearken,
Make no bitterer sign of woe,
Here within thee all things darken,
All things brighten with thy foe:
Hush thy weeping; still thy bitter lamentations.

FIRST VOICE.
Flash the sword!—A voice is flowing
From the Baltic bound in white,
Though 'tis blowing chill and snowing,
Blue-eyed Teutons see the light.
And the far white hills of Norway hear the crying.

SECOND VOICE.
Thou too hearkenest, Mother dearest,
Thou too hearkenest through thy tears,
And thou tremblest as thou hearest,
For 'tis thunder in thine ears;
And thou gazest on the dead and on the dying.

FIRST VOICE.
Lübeck answers and rejoices,
Though her dead are brought to her;
Potsdam thunders; there are voices
In the fields of Hanover;
And the spirits of the lonely Hartz awaken.

SECOND VOICE.
And in France's vales and mountains
Hands are wrung and tears are shed;
Women sit by village fountains,
And the water bubbles red.
O comfort, O be of comfort—ye forsaken!

FIRST VOICE.
O'er Bavarian woods and rivers,
Where the Brunswick heather waves,
On the glory goes and quivers
Through the Erzgebirge caves;
And the swords of Styria gleam like moonlit water.

SECOND VOICE.
There is silence, there is weeping,
On the bloody banks of Seine,
And the unburied dead are sleeping
In the fields of trampled grain;
While the roadside Christs stare down on fields of slaughter.

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FIRST VOICE.
Flash the sword! Where need is sorest,
Sitting in the lonely night,
While the wind in the Black Forest
Moans, the woodman sees the light;
And the hunters wind the horn and hail each other.

SECOND VOICE.
Strasbourg sits among her ashes
With a last despairing cry;
East and west red ruin flashes
With a red light on the sky.
Not a word! Sit yet and hearken, O my Mother!

FIRST VOICE.
Flash the sword! The glades of Baden
Echo; Jena laughs anon;
Dresden old and Stuttgart gladden,
There is mirth in Ratisbon:—
And underneath the Linden there is leaping.

SECOND VOICE.
In thine arms the horror tarries,
And the sword-flash gleams on thee,
Hide thy funeral face, O Paris,
Do not hearken; do not see;
Flectra, clasp thine urn, and hush thy weeping.

FIRST VOICE.
Hamburg kindles, and her women
Sadly smile remembering all;
There are bitter smiles in Bremen,
Where Vandamme's fierce feet did fall;
But the Katzbach, O the Katzbach laugheth loudly!

SECOND VOICE.
Comfort, Mother! hear not, heed not;
Let the dead bury the dead!
Fold thy powerless hands and plead not,
They remember sorrows fled,
And their dead go by them, silently and proudly.

FIRST VOICE.
O that Fritz's soul could hear it
In the walks of Sans Souci!
O to waken Lützow's spirit,
Blücher's too, the grim and free;
And the Jäger, the wild Jäger, would they listen'd!

SECOND VOICE.
Comfort, Mother! O cease weeping!
Let the past bury the past:
Faces of the slain and sleeping
Gleam along upon the blast.
Yea, 'twas ‘Leipsic’ that they murmur'd as they glisten'd.

FIRST VOICE.
All the land of the great River
Slowly brightens near and far;
Lost for once, and saved for ever,
Körner's spirit like a star
Shooteth past, and all remember the beginning.

SECOND VOICE.
They are rising, they are winging,
Spirits of her singers dead:
'Tis an old song they are singing,
Fold thy hands and bow thy head,
But they sing for thee too, gentle to thy sinning.

FIRST VOICE.
And the River to the ocean
Rolls; and all its castles dim
Gleam; and with a shadowy motion,
Like a mist upon its brim,
Rise the Dead,—and look this way with shining faces.

SECOND VOICE.
Thine, too, rise!—and darkly cluster,
Moaning sad around thee now,
In their eyes there is no lustre,
They are cold as thy cold brow—
Let them vanish; let them sleep in their dark places.

FIRST VOICE.
Flash the sword! In the fair valleys
Where the scented Neckar flows,
Fair-hair'd Teutons lift the chalice,
And the winter vineyard grows,
And the almond forests tremble into blossom.

SECOND VOICE.
On thy vineyards the cold daylight
Gleams, and they are deadly chill;
Women wander in the grey light,
And the lean trees whistle shrill;
Hold thine urn, O martyr Mother, to thy bosom.

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FIRST VOICE.
Flash the sword! Sweet notes of pleasure
O'er the Rhenish upland swell,
And the overhanging azure
Sees itself in the Moselle.
All the land of the great River gleams and hearkens!

SECOND VOICE.
Dost thou hear them? dost thou see them?
There 'tis gladness, here 'tis pain;
One great Spirit comes to free them,
But he holds thee with a chain.
All the land of the great City weeps and darkens!

FIRST VOICE.
River of the mighty people,
Broaden to the sea and flow,
Mirror tilth and farm and steeple,
Darken with boats that come and go.
Smile gently, like a babe that smiles and prattles.

SECOND VOICE.
Yea! and though thou flow for ever,
Bright and bloodless as to-day,
Scarcely wilt thou wash, O River,
Thy dark load of dead away,
O bloody River! O field of many battles!

FIRST VOICE.
On with great immortal waters
Brightening to a day divine,
Through the fields of many slaughters
Freely roll, O German Rhine.
Let the Teuton drink thy wine and wax the stronger.

SECOND VOICE.
On and on, O mighty River,
Flow through lands of corn and vine—
Turn away, O France, for ever,
Look no more upon the Rhine;
On the River of many sorrows look no longer.

FIRST VOICE.
Lo! the white Alps for a token
With the wild aurora gleam,
And the Spectre of the Brocken
Stands aloft with locks that stream,—
All the land of the great River can behold it!

SECOND VOICE.
Hide thine eyes and look not thither!
For, in answer to their cries,
Fierce the Phantasm gazeth hither
With an Avenging Angel's eyes;
It is fading, and the mists of storm enfold it!